The Earth Will Turn
by Pale Treasures
Summary: A year after the rebellion, Laeta is left making sense of her own feelings and memories and contemplating her future. Canon, one shot.


**Disclaimer: **Spartacus belongs to Steven S. DeKnight, Starz, etc. I own nothing.

**Rating: **T, just to be safe

**Author's Note: **This is a bit pointless and PWP, but I really like Laeta and wanted to try writing her (and Sybil too). OOC-ness is very possible, and I apologize for it. Please let me know what you think. Reviews all but make me cry with joy, so please don't be shy!

* * *

A year had passed since fated end of rebellion. A year since, battered and with heart and judgement utterly changed, she had begun long and unsteady trek through the mountains along with other survivors. Those had been trying times, which she still remembered clearly; suffused with both exhilaration for newfound freedom and possibility, but also deep, silent grief for loss of one whose presence had proved so monumental in life of late. She had not had the time to properly mourn him whilst escaping from grasp of Rome; time had been consumed by more pressing worries, shock and sorrow had dulled heart and seized tears.

Denial about occurrence of an unfortunate event, which at times overcomes certain creatures, had eluded her, painfully so, she had, on occasion, been known to think. Spartacus' death had cut deep, perhaps more so due to all wasted promise that had accompanied their acquaintance. They were upon path to knowing each other better, something more profound than mere lust or need for comfort pulsing beneath – but before either had been able to admit it or explore it further, he had been robbed from her, death welcomed willingly, for the sake of greater cause. It had wounded more because of such. As it is always wont to wound whenever something – anything – at least vaguely cherished is abruptly torn from grasp.

She did not think of herself as weak of spirit or prone to melancholy for long, although heart was sensitive and given to ample and deep emotion. Yet a particular chord had been struck since death of Spartacus and permanent removal from Rome. Practical thinking and steady footing had been difficult to immediately regain. Her spirits still often sunk and soul felt sometimes quite lost, even though she stood aware she possessed greatest blessings upon earthly realm; liberty and life. And dismal feeling was not entirely owed to Spartacus' demise, she concluded whenever she allowed her thoughts to linger on it; she was not entirely certain what caused it. Perhaps the atrocities she had witnessed, or realising lifelong beliefs and dreams had been mistaken, which covered heart with thinnest film of otherwise absent cynicism. At times, sting of loss became too great to bear, and longing for Spartacus' presence and grief for his passing caused dull pain to bear heavy upon chest; then, in the darkness of night or in sunlit seclusion, tears quietly slipped from lids.

Perhaps she should never recover from such acute blow. And as such she began at times to feel she dimly lost sense of self. She recognised still what she had always been, but it was buried deep beneath, muffled and hazy. She favoured solitude, but companionship of friends who had also emerged from rebellion and final battle unscathed offered distraction and helped heal confusion and sorrow.

Agron had silently warmed to her, though he scarcely showed it and surely did not admit it even to himself; Nasir had been warmer and more convivial from the start, and, sensing with keener perception sorrow for loss endured, approached her with unfailing gentleness. Sybil, however, particularly as the only female she had grown close to in the group of survivors, offered the most comfort, although it was yet tinged with pain. Her visits, albeit somewhat timid, as though she expected her presence to be unwanted, were generally constant. In one of such days, when they were sitting together in Laeta's small cottage, Sybil again showed upon countenance mixture of curiosity, pity and effort not to broach improper topic. Laeta watched her closely, during lengthy pause in conversation; Sybil, too, had sustained losses. Promise of growing love had been equally torn from her, and she could perceive her younger friend still struggled with acceptance of it. Because of such, but without fully losing innocent and attractive qualities, Sybil had grown older, newfound wisdom and world-weariness written, albeit subtly, across features. Similar loss drew them closer, although words were seldom shared in that regard. Speaking still inflicted too painful a wound.

"Spring returns after long slumber and inclement winter," Sybil spoke up softly, drawing her from her thoughts. "A thing heartily missed, do you not think?"

She attempted a smile. "Indeed. Sunshine is much needed presence."

"And it acts like welcome balm upon prolonged sorrow," Sybil added gently, with surprising sagacity.

Laeta looked up at her in surprise, but said nothing. At last, as she saw Sybil's countenance show the most fleeting display of melancholy, she said, "A balm sorely needed by both of us, then." Sybil made valiant effort to offer feeble smile.

"Strength and purpose will return, but I cannot see it at present," Sybil said in small voice.

"Nor I." Tentatively, with no attempt to hide sadness keenly felt within, the two smiled at each other.

"I did not think you would succumb to sorrow," Sybil ventured, with a trembling voice and eyes hazy with memories, "you were always strong."

"A thing of the past, it seems. All but distant memory."

"It warms heart to know I do not stand alone in my grief," Sybil whispered.

"No, you do not."

Silence fell upon them again. Laeta resumed conversation:

"We stand blessed; many died so that we could be free. But the heart of man is selfish, and cannot dwell on its present blessings when dreams closely cherished were dashed to pieces."

"I try to tell myself similar words; surely the gods would look upon me and disapprove of current conduct. But it can hardly be helped," Sybil said guiltily.

"The gods stand no longer at liberty to make such judgements."

Surprise flashed across Sybil's expression, "You do not believe in them?"

"I hardly know what I feel towards them," Laeta smiled, with a touch of bitterness.

"They were at work so that we could live," Sybil said gently, "they must favour us."

"And Spartacus?" Laeta asked, with more passion than she could help, "and Gannicus? And countless others? What did the gods do to give aid and show favour?"

She immediately regretted harsh tone of voice. Sybil's face fell, and Laeta longed to beg for forgiveness. But something prevented her. At length, however, the silence was so painful and Sybil so resembled a lost, repentant child that Laeta could help herself no more.

"Apologies," she leaned forward and looked entreatingly at Sybil. "Do forgive – mine were callous and unnecessary words, brought forward only by pain and resentment."

Sybil smiled weakly. "There is nothing to forgive. It is I who spoke out of turn."

Laeta leaned closer still and took Sybil's hand in hers, squeezing it; Sybil's smile widened in gratitude. They sat thus in silence for a long moment.

"Will you go to the market in the following days?" Sybil asked. "I favoured thought of going myself, but I would dislike doing so unaccompanied. Perhaps you could be so kind as to come along?"

Laeta smiled. "I will gladly go and offer company."

Sybil's face briefly lit up in joy. "Gratitude. Your presence will be much appreciated." She paused, and then, slow, rather unfamiliar impish smile played upon lips, in spite of attempt to disguise it. "I imagine we shall cross paths with Titus whilst there."

Laeta looked up, startled. "I dare say. What has caused mind to conjure up such image?"

"He has as much need of market as we do," Sybil replied, in poor attempt to justify words. Her smile, however, only widened. At length, she gave voice to what she was so evidently suppressing. "He is much taken with you, you know."

Laeta flustered. "Nonsense."

"Is is true." Sybil giggled, and Laeta was both bewildered and amused; she had never seen her behave thus. "He is rather of a form. Do you not find?" she added mischievously.

Laeta's blush burnt hotter. "I suppose; although I have hardly spared much time to assess physical merits."

Sybil giggled again. "Words hardly to be believed, given the way blush stains cheek."

Laeta felt face still throbbing with heat, but said nothing else, feeling slightly discomfited. She _had_ indeed noticed the man's attentions, more than she had attempted to lead Sybil to believe. Stares from a distance – for nothing more had yet passed from his end – were enough to burn hole upon flesh. But she knew not how she felt regarding amorous display. Until Titus' attentions and who they were for had been made clear, she had not given any thought to love or considered idea to welcome new man in her life. Indeed, to this day she believed herself far from ready for such. But Sybil's words caused remembrance to pour through mind; she envisioned Titus, with golden hair that curled upon temples and nape of neck and glimmered like finely spun gold in the sunlight. His clear blue eyes, of as bright a tint as the sky, held curious blend of silent, casual earnestness and of almost childlike vulnerability, which still did not fail to puzzle. She could not help wondering whether the latter was displayed only respecting her. Uncertainty still sat upon heart regarding feelings for him; sometimes, she had wished she could like him – only a fool or a liar would deny feeling flattered by another's affection, requited or no – and, despite words said to Sybil, she _had_ noticed handsomeness of face and form, but in those moments, almost immediately, reminder of Spartacus pierced through memory and caused guilt to stab heart. In these uncertain terms she still found herself presently.

"You should not feel mortified, Laeta," Sybil said with a smile, interrupting musings, "you stand fortunate. He loves you, I know; I can feel it. You are given opportunity to be happy again; heart's fulfilment is yet within grasp in this life, and, if seized, would be much deserved."

"Bold yet sensible advice, which I hope to see taken by the one who imparts it one day," Laeta remarked, smiling. It was Sybil's turn to blush. But she did not appear offended, and neither was Laeta. The girl was young and tender-hearted, and, above all, meant well. She had gathered as much since trying times in rebel camp, struggling to survive another day. Her friendship and interest were to be cherished; it was rare to find such a gentle soul in this world.

"You ask too much," Sybil murmured, gaze downcast. "Heart is unprepared to contemplate such possibility; it fears there shall be no more love to nourish it for what remains of mortal life. But I am content to wait; I hope I shall return to Gannicus in the afterlife." Her lip trembled, but her eyes remained valiantly dry.

"Life stretches long before you, its wonders still untasted. Existence is yet too young and full of promise for thoughts of eternal misery," Laeta said gently, although she could not truthfully say she had not entertained similar thoughts. "I would see you seize current freedom to live and expand heart now that chance stands before you, absent impediment."

"A thing that may or may not come to pass; it is too closely reliant on strength and elasticity of mind and spirit. For the present, they stand still shaken by much too recent occurrences."

"A pain well known."

They fell silent.

"But you will come to the market, will you not?" Sybil persisted hopefully, after a moment had elapsed.

Laeta laughed. "I promise."

* * *

Sybil's words had led mind to churn. Night had been spent all but awake. The following morning, she rose with the sun, and noticed with both wonder and distaste that hands slightly trembled. Sybil was standing at her door at appointed time, with shy and warm smile. Laeta felt glad to see her; friend's presence would distract her from bewildering thoughts.

They walked in companionable silence through cheerful noise of market, occasionally stopping before the rickety wooden stands where fruit, vegetables, meat, fish and fresh flowers piled. They assessed the offerings, sometimes purchasing a few. Laeta's heart involuntarily began to race when she saw – as both she and Sybil knew they would – tall, strong frame with back turned to her, glittering golden hair caressing sun-kissed neck. A mixture of resentment and strange excitement swelled within her.

She wondered what he was doing at the market. Titus, surprisingly, stood unmarried man and his life appeared to be a solitary one. He purchased food and needed items as a woman would, in ordinary circumstances. The cause for such unconventional existence piqued her curiosity the longer she stared at him. She knew nothing about him, knowledge of his existence and attentions being fairly recent. Had he had a woman before? Had he never been interested in marriage? Had something occurred to lead him to favour loneliness?

But the man himself must have sensed attention, for he turned around and instantly locked eyes with her. Laeta reddened and looked away. Sybil, thankfully, was occupied with perusing items on a nearby stand and did not notice silent exchange. Titus, however, was not deterred; Laeta continued to feel gaze hot and steady upon her. Why did he do so? And why did she, in spite of self, feel so fascinated with it?

At length, tentatively, she gave him slanted look. Something afterwards compelled her to squarely meet his gaze. Heart throbbed harder still, an aching, dizzy feeling seeping beneath frame and shaking her completely. She searched his eyes; the colour of a brilliant summer sky, and indeed holding the same earnestness she remembered, both casual and pleading. No; Laeta had feeling he had only ever looked at her like this. Could one know whether a man was good simply by looking into his eyes? Had her past truly taught her such a thing? She realised now that it was difficult to say; that such a thing was never simple. Indeed, it had not been simple when she had asked herself the same question regarding Spartacus, and purpose of the rebellion, and had attempted to placate the million doubts that had followed. It would not be simple with Titus. But she wished it could be. If she had an answer laid out before her, who knew if she might not make sense of own feelings more swiftly? If she might not persuade unyielding heart to change?

"Expected visitor is here, and his attentions fall upon you, as predicted," Sybil whispered in her ear with a smile, resurfacing from engrossing occupation as she became lost in hers.

Laeta looked down, blush returning and deepening. "Let us not speak of it. We had better go."

Sybil hesitated. "You seemed absorbed in watching him as well. Leaving might now wound both, instead of just one. Is heart beginning to soften towards the man?"

"I cannot tell," Laeta whispered. "It would still prove wiser to depart. Please."

Sybil looked up at her in confusion, but did not press the matter.

They made their way home in silence, Laeta's spirits having suddenly and inexplicably sunk. Sybil was too kind-hearted to express curiosity about the change.

"Would you need anything else? If you wish for further company, I will only be too happy to stay, or to come later," the younger woman offered.

Laeta smiled. "Gratitude. The intent is very much appreciated. But I will be better left alone. My company would only spoil your own mood."

"A thing to be withstood, if you have need of me," Sybil persisted softly.

Laeta's smile widened a fraction. She took Sybil's hands in hers and squeezed them. "Gratitude. Another time."

Sybil nodded, and Laeta watched the young woman as she made her lonesome way down towards her own house, lithe of steps and frame alike.

She entered own abode and sat down, watching the day unfold with brilliance of imminent spring outside, uncaring to change taking place within her. The past, she knew then, was a difficult thing to let go of. How could she forget, even if she wished to? How could she willingly erase memories absent pressing feeling of guilt? Heart had not yet fully come to terms with lost possibilities, with shattered hopes; Spartacus and the faint promise of feelings deepened returned swiftly to mind. A home and a life broken, deepest beliefs ripped from within breast – though all of that had not been for the worst, and she felt glad for the change – stood in the way of renewal. A new life was still too much to think of, when shadows of past still haunted her so vividly.

Sometimes she had secretly wished for something to remain of time of rebellion – of brief time shared with Spartacus. A child to swell within womb as reminder of passionate tryst shared with rebel leader. Something that would prove he had not died in vain, something more intimate and tender than legacy he had left, precious as it was. A child to nurture and raise and love, and who in turn would help allay her loneliness. But it was naught but a dream, and to even entertain such dream embarrassed her. It was foolish of her – she was no longer a child. But the heart was prompt to ignore such chastising, and to cling to deepest hunger – was it not always?

It was not the first time she felt ungrateful for feeling thus. She was alive, well, and even though her years were advanced, she was still young. Much could still be accomplished – as Sybil had drawn attention to – happiness could still be found. Spartacus and all the others who had fallen had fought so she could have this. But something she had not yet been aware of became clear within mind: the dead were beyond salvation, forever silent and still, and it was for the living to deal with unique struggles that stretched beyond their saviours' demise. At times, they made life far more testing than could be imagined, and the fact that one breathed and stood whole was little blessing; but she would not wish herself dead. It had been made plain before, amidst the rebellion, and now quivered silently within, but it was true nonetheless: she had a hunger for living. She savoured every breath, and, whenever she forgot her good fortune or the act became commonplace, she took pause and savoured it all the more eagerly, with as much gratitude as she could pour into it.

Nevertheless, it was an easy thing to forget, an easy thing to feel the weight of loneliness or despair, in spite of pressing blessings. One now stretched clearly before her, awaiting only her decision. In addition to freedom, she could have love. A home. Perhaps a family. Sybil had sensed Titus' love, the way only a woman could, and Laeta had long been aware of it too. She forced his recollection upon mind, striving to envision him with the greatest clarity possible. She did not love him. But would she be capable of that one day? If she found out that he was a good man, if she allowed herself to experience his love and protection, if her skin burnt under his touch, could she love him then? Would she be happy if she forwent solitude and chose him?

She knew there was but one way to end all doubt, and she was not yet prepared to take such a step. Somehow, having nothing as she did, she still felt there would be too much to lose. She had left a long and loveless marriage – although she had not been unhappy – and had recently lost a man she was growing to love. It was much too soon. Perhaps time would be gentle – would be patient – and Titus, even ignorant of her thoughts, would be too. If she had not been unhappy in her marriage to Ennius, perhaps she would not be so either with Titus, who loved her and was more agreeable to her than Ennius had been, truth be told.

She did not know what to think, which way to turn to, and her own future, the choices she would make that would lead there, were still cloaked in darkness, an utter mystery to her. She could not help but feel that desire to look upon Titus more kindly was a weakness brought about by her own dejection. His love did not cease to frighten and confuse her. Perhaps it would be best that she remained alone for the rest of her days – it was not a bad way to live. A privilege, rather, after everything she had endured.

Thoughts were still aflutter, heart still gripped by previous grief. She was yet in need to fully reclaim former self. But perhaps there would be leisure to decide, to venture out of existence freshly shaped. To choose between solitude or company, between melancholy or contentment. Between what was known and what was yet unfathomable. Perhaps time would, indeed, be kind. It was all she was entitled to ask for.


End file.
